


don’t you know who you’re dealing with

by aflashofgreen



Series: ripe for anarchy [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Arranged Marriage, F/F, Implied/Referenced Violence, Organized Crime, Sexual Tension, Wedding Night, wardrobe related shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27538309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aflashofgreen/pseuds/aflashofgreen
Summary: In the midst of a deadly tug of war between different crime families, Sansa Stark is set to marry Daenerys Targaryen. The one where Sansa and Dany share a wedding night.
Relationships: Sansa Stark/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: ripe for anarchy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2012830
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	don’t you know who you’re dealing with

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dollfacerobot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollfacerobot/gifts).



> This is an old fic idea I had that I started writing back in the summer but then set aside. I figured it fit the AU and arranged marriage prompts for Sapphic Sansa Fest 2020 on tumblr, so here it is finished. Huge thanks to hilarychuff for beta-reading.
> 
> Dedicated to Sophia because it’s her birthday and she’s the best.
> 
> Title from National Anthem by Lana Del Rey.

The wedding is everything Sansa dreamt of as a young girl. All the flower arrangements for the reception were her pick, same as their lemon elderflower cake and the overall menu. While her bride is not the tall, lean figure Sansa always pictured in her childhood dreams, the petite woman standing next to her throughout the ceremony was just as proud and beautiful as Sansa always wished her partner would be. She wonders now if her wife’s lack of involvement in the wedding planning was agreed upon with Robb from the start. Since Sansa had no say beyond giving her consent once her fiancée was selected, the rest had been up to her. 

The biggest splurge for the wedding was the dress ordered from London, a luxury afforded to few brides after the crash of ‘29, let alone two. The silhouette of Sansa’s gown is simple save for the split sleeves, the true extravagance found in the bias cut and shiny satin fabric. Sansa is more than pleased every time she catches her reflection. Admittedly, it was important that she look pretty. Pretty and silent as an ornament next to her wife, today and all the days. It’s what she’s been tasked with doing: butter up Daenerys to lower her guard, gain her affection too. Sansa would be more offended at being used as a pawn in this whole ordeal, but it’s “for the good of the family.”

They were all raised on the same notions of doing your duty and sticking together and, around here, there aren’t many who benefit from doing as they please. Unless you find yourself at the top of the food chain, that is. But Sansa doesn’t command respect the way her brother does; her power has always resided in being well-connected and, as the years have made clear, in her good looks. She’s not the first Stark whose personal feelings were overlooked in securing everyone’s safety or comfort. Since Father’s death, it’s always about the former, though. _Winter is coming._ Those words are as much a warning against complacency as a plain reminder of the passing of seasons. They’d grown up hearing them repeated countless times around their household, yet they’d failed in serving their purpose. Six bullets through Ned Stark’s body, one for each of his children, did the job better.

Gunshots were not uncommon around here, but ashes were a different matter. True to her family’s words, fire and blood heralded Daenerys Targaryen’s homecoming. When Daenerys was born, she wasn’t destined to take over her family’s business, nor was there anything left to inherit by the time the girl became a woman. She had to build her own empire, and the ones she leads now are outsiders, none of them native to these streets where everyone knows everyone. Who did Daenerys have left to be loyal to but a makeshift family, when her relatives were all hunted down like dogs instead of the fearless dragons the Targaryens fancied themselves to be? Now it’s Sansa’s family they mean to kill.

_They._ Anyone who isn’t them, it seems. Robb blames the Lannisters, Jon the Boltons. Arya says it was all of them, while Bran advises caution in dealing with the Freys. There’s a target on each of their backs, even baby Rickon’s who might no longer be a baby but is still too young to be involved in the family’s affairs. As always, the Starks are a pack.

Mother was the one to suggest expanding their pack’s numbers. Sansa’s beauty and family name made her an equally agreeable bride whose connections held the promise of a valuable and lucrative alliance for anyone. Bringing an outsider into their ranks was a risky move, but those were all that remained to the Starks. Despite her recent entry on the board, Daenerys quickly proved to be an important player, and Sansa sealed their families’ fates together when she let the other woman slide a ring on her finger.

“No one ever suspects the wife,” said her mother earlier, adjusting her daughter’s veil, and it occurred to Sansa in that moment that there was never a bullet for Catelyn Stark.

_Won’t Daenerys be my wife too_ , she had been tempted to reply, but of course her mother’s meaning wasn’t lost on her. Sansa has always been considered a mild-mannered sort of girl. Eye-catching certainly, but the way diamond earrings on display at the jeweler’s might be. Desirable but never threatening.

The day of their father’s funeral, once Ned Stark had been laid to rest six feet underground, Arya had come to Sansa’s room and shoved a Baby Browning in her sister’s hands. All Sansa could do was stare dumbly at the small gun and say out loud what they both already knew.

“Aim and shoot,” was Arya’s simple answer. “Never hesitate.”

No one would ever think to praise the younger Stark daughter for how well she might play the part of the docile wife; Arya is no less striking than her sister, it’s true, but the attention she commands is more akin to that of lightning flashing in the sky. In Sansa’s handbag, the semi-automatic pistol has been lying, untouched, since Arya gave it to her, but people forget Sansa is as much a wolf as the rest of her family. It has its advantages too.

All around her, people are celebrating, drinking and laughing and sharing smiles. This is what the reception is for. A wedding is a joyous occasion, after all. While it’s not quite the mingling of Direwolves and Dragons both camps hope for yet, with people sticking close to their usual friends, they’ll get there.

Sansa looks up from her plate only to find her wife is already watching her.

“Shall we dance?”

* * *

“You’re not frightened,” Daenerys observes.

Sansa shrugs. “Seems to me fear has no right place in a marriage. If one hopes for a successful one, at least.”

“The loving kind?”

“Sure, but I can still look scared, if you’d rather.”

“Oh, so you’re an actress.” Daenerys’ tone sounds delighted, though more by Sansa’s attitude than any talent at playing pretend she might possess, Sansa guesses. “I shall like to see you at work one day, but not tonight. You see, I quite agree with you. Fear need have no place here.”

Even this short exchange is already the most they’ve talked, not just today, but since first becoming acquainted. Sansa had imagined Daenerys would have wanted to spend time with her before walking down the aisle, but that hadn’t been the case. Instead, they find themselves alone together for the first time, in this bedroom that is to become Sansa’s, inside the house that is her spouse’s and now hers too.

“I don’t need your submission,” Daenerys concludes. “I don’t even need your love. I just need you to be my wife, you understand me? Lies won’t do either in our marriage.”

“I know why you married me.” Sharp violet eyes turn on Sansa. “You think it’ll give you some legitimacy to ally yourself with us,” she goes on, calmly, “but you don’t need it. Power is all that matters in the end, and your name intimidates enough already.”

“Is this your way of asking for a divorce? My, it’s only our wedding night.” The remark goes unanswered by Sansa, though Daenerys appears equally unfazed, even as she reveals a first hint of vulnerability. “Targaryen. Stormborn,” she lists, “I’m not like you Starks. It doesn’t matter what people call me or what name they fear; there’s only ever one of me.”

“I’ve never seen you stand alone.” Sansa thinks of the elegant, curly-haired woman who accompanies Daenerys everywhere like her own shadow, the equally handsome man who is never far behind them, old Barristan Selmy who used to be a Lannister man, and all the other people that surround her wife. There’s real camaraderie between them all. Sansa’s seen it with her own eyes.

“No,” Daenerys agrees. “And this you can trust in, Sansa: I cherish those I love and take care of what is mine,” she says pointedly. “You won’t betray me, will you? I won’t stand for it.”

“I don’t betray my family.”

“But I’m not your family, am I? I’m your wife.” Daenerys idly runs well manicured fingers along the patterns of her skirt — the gown she wears has a lace overlay — leaving Sansa to wonder how the same motions would feel on her bare skin. She’s only felt her wife’s touch a handful of times so far, three of those today: during their dance, yes, and in church, when they exchanged rings and then Daenerys leaned in, pressing a chaste kiss to Sansa’s lips. “I wouldn’t want you to confuse me for anybody else.”

Her throat feels suddenly parched. She licks her lips, looking around the room for a jug of water or some other refreshment, but there’s nothing in this big room with the big bed and her wife sitting on it.

“That seems unlikely to happen.” She speaks truly. “You ought to remind me, however, if I forget.”

“I don’t intend to give you the chance to forget.”

“I’ll take your word for it until you offer something better.”

Daenerys doesn’t waste time on words. Her response is in the unhurried steps she takes to come stand behind Sansa, in her fingers deftly undoing the buttons that hold the pristine ivory gown in place. And nothing else. Head turned to the side, Sansa peeks over her shoulder and sees her wife simply observing her. When their eyes meet, Daenerys looking back at her through long lashes, Sansa feels a shiver run up her spine, no matter that her back isn’t fully revealed yet, not with the slip she wears underneath her dress still in place. The shiver gives way to warmth inside her chest that, in a reverse journey, spreads down to her loins and transforms into heat when Daenerys speaks again.

“You can undress the rest of the way yourself.”


End file.
